


high

by geniewish



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Substance Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, Vomiting, but the real vomit here is This word vomit, have you watched god damn yet, not really unhealthy relationships, theyre just built this way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29588877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geniewish/pseuds/geniewish
Summary: changkyun's main problem is himself, and hyungwon is just a side effect.
Relationships: Chae Hyungwon/Im Changkyun | I.M
Comments: 5
Kudos: 69





	high

**Author's Note:**

> listen this is just a word vomit i wrote in one and a half sittings while in some astral state after crying to god damn mv like three times. also bc i needed to reach the milestone on ao3
> 
> heed the tags, there's drug and alcohol reference, and the whole thing is written from the perspective of a narrator in a high state of mind
> 
> i listened to duality the whole time and also miley cyrus - high!! good song. really fits. i really did cry to god damn and i cant stress enough how self indulgent this interpretation is
> 
> hope u enjoy! and if u dont, i hope u cry w me!

_Where are you?_

Somewhere in the countryside, our getaway house – a barn, where we sleep on hay and listen to baby sheep coo during the night. In the rye field, fresh and green early in the spring and warm and dry in summer, yellow, tall, a hiding spot in the middle of the fucking world under the blue sky. Chemtrails, fertilising planes, and during the harvest season – hot air balloons. Animals in the clouds, white, fluffy, not as fluffy as your smile and not as pure as your laughter. Fingers interlaced, long hair ticklish on my cheek, running after you into the people’s world, and then stopping to observe a little bug on your finger. Funfares, makeshift Ferris wheels, arcades with silly challenges and even sillier toys. You used to bring home those massive cat plushies and smack me in the face with them during our pillow fights. Your aunt’s house. A bed too little to fit both of us. Quieter than butterflies, you whisper tales from your past and I caress your face, studying how the nocturnal shadows lay on your skin.

_Where are you?_

Studio flat, big window from floor to ceiling, and outside – the world we have explored through and through. Tiny alleyways, stray cats, you said we should take one in because it didn’t have a leg. Your eyes glassy, your pout thick, your hair just as unbrushed as that cat’s. You don’t have fleas – I checked – and you smack me in the arm for this comment, but I always make it up to you by a kiss on the crown of your head. Morning coffee, lazy kisses, we order delivery, and in the evenings – a can of beer, delivery, and during the night – a cigarette after sex, a run to the convenience store for more condoms. Why don’t we hang some curtains? The sunlight is too eager to play with your hair, but I am always ahead of it, and then you hide under the blanket, and I mess up your stupid bedhead even more. Opening the window, the cacophony of the outside world, but we have jazz on your stereo. Little dances, stretched t-shirts and underwear from last night. A little freckle on your shoulder blade, and I am of perfect height to kiss it as if every morning I learn about it anew. 

_Where are you?_

Museum, Romantic paintings and Greek statues. Faux-deep modernism, photography. On the bench staring out, waiting, seeing deep dark eyes on a Dionysus and hearing calm mumblings on Aivazovsky waves. A spare ticket in my pocket, and then a message on my phone. Restaurant date, your card on the check, a rose between us, not real. Candlelights, your hand on top of mine. Nighttime drive, empty streets and the noise of the city far behind us, we sit on top of the hill and drink, and you tell me we’re too drunk to drive back, and in the cold backseat I feel warm again. A little tug at the back of my head – what if someone sees? But then I smooth it out. Not a Zodiac. Not 70’s America. You’re like fiction to me. 

_Where are you?_

Because you always were. Are you real? Why don’t you call? Why do you tell me you hate yourself? Am I at fault? Stale delivery, unwashed cat plushie on my bed. With a kitchen knife I cut open its stomach, fluff of the clouds on my face, I don’t understand why I’m alone but a second ago was just in your arms. I forgot my prescription, you didn’t remind me – I never told you. Empty bottles in the trash – mine? Yours? We had a little party last night, just the two of us. I said something, you were crying, why did I do it?

_Where are you?_

You’re not real. You don’t call. You tell me you hate yourself. I’m at fault. I can’t help the growing number of bottles in my trash, fuck, it wasn’t you, and you did call. This isn’t your underwear. Yours is black and well-kept, I know your clothes, I wash them, and this is not yours. The washing machine is full, for how long? 

_Where are you?_

Your thumbs under my eyes. Saviour complex, you’re no better than me, keep your empty words to yourself – no, please, don’t. I didn’t know you were waiting, give me the fucking plastic bag back, I need it for clarity. Smack on my face, thumbs back under my eyes, I’m gonna puke, why weren’t you there for me last night? You weren’t there for me last night, it’s my fault, I laugh, what do you mean, this is not another whore, I’ve never had another, god damn it, I blacked out again, I puke over and over again. 

_Where are you?_

The washing machine is full again. Your hug from behind, kisses on my nape, they get lower and lower as I descend, lower and lower, overcome with hysteria, filled apologies, filled promises, and then the washing machine is full again. This is not my studio, my bed doesn’t have a window this big. Whose doorstep first, mine or yours? I’m at fault. Sorry. I didn’t notice. Fuck. Don’t leave. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck me, please, please, fuck me as if I didn’t just say all this, my problems aren’t yours, I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours, and then the washing machine is full again, not your clothes. 

What the fuck?

Where are you?

Withered flowers on your bar counter, why aren’t they fake? 

Where the fuck are you? Where the fuck are you? Where the fuck are you?

… 

_Where am I?_ He is sitting on the dirty bathroom floor, a teenage classic, an aesthetic moodboard. Devils dancing in his eyes, devils burning in his stomach, god fucking damn it, he’s going to throw up. Dingy bathroom stall, and on the wall there’s an ugly drawing of a dick. Names written in messy capitals, but not one would say _Changkyun was here_. Anywhere but here.

He gets up on shaky legs, sticky hands scratching on the brick behind him. There’s puke in the toilet but not his, dark figures flashing past him, he didn’t close the door, and the fucking music slams against the walls, fucking missiles, louder and louder and louder, war inside his skull. He is shivering, it hurts in his head and in his stomach, a swarm of ants and flies and bugs, buzzing, chirring, along the lining of his intestine and in the crevices of his brain, and if he opens his mouth, leeches crawl on his tongue. 

Weak, he feels weak, and something tugs on the back of his eyes, something wrings the veins holding his heart to his chest, a vessel of saline he needs to claw out of himself, a mix of poison that used to grant heaven and the hellish dose of fucking feelings. Who is he, where is he, where is _he_ , why is he alone, hell bent, damned by god he isn’t sure he is so dedicated to anymore, is he abandoned? He is abandoned.

Alcohol bubbles in thick goo in his stomach, but it’s something else that clutches at his jaw. All he needs is to open his mouth but his teeth are grit shut, if he just swirls into himself he won’t feel it, he won’t feel anything at all, isn’t that the point? Fucking questions, no answers, and the beat changes, ugly, irratic, boom-boom-boom, fuck, he is going to faint.

_Changkyun._

Distorted, mechanical, a DJ under layers of autotune, what the fuck do you want? Leave me alone, and he is trying to find purchase on the dirty walls of the stall, piss sticks to the sole of his shoes, and he snivels, inhaling fantom human discharge, everything unpleasant, four humors, medieval practices – he should practice them too, but he doesn’t let go, only feed and feed and feed, fuck, it stinks,

_Changkyun._

and it’s revolving, blue and red neon, hazy shadows passing through the ajar door, boom-boom-boom, 

_Changkyun._

and there’s acid on his tongue, and acid in his

_Changkyun._

eyes, and all he needs to do is

_Changkyun._

open his fucking mouth, make a sound, let it out, and

_Changkyun._

and will you fucking leave me alone!

“Changkyun!” 

Violent hands on his shoulders, brick on his spine, and he flinches forward, barely holding it in, a swarm of moths rattling in his throat, but he is held firm and still against the wall. Neon paints Hyungwon’s face, Hyungwon, a pleasant name, Chae Hyungwon, big mouth and even bigger eyes, 

“Changkyun, look at me!”

and the voice that shouts over the booming and whirring and shrieking of the music. 

He looks, one Hyungwon, two Hyungwons, one Hyungwon, two Hyungwons, black hair stitching at the sides, one Hyungwon, eyes growing longer, flattening, two Hyungwons, four nostrils catching Changkyun’s heaved exhale.

No Hyungwons, a slap on his cheek. Intentional, not emotional. A pang of pain numbs all the other feelings for a brief moment, and then there is one Hyungwon. Blue and red streaks of neon in his hair, blue eyes, red lips, blue fingers, red shirt. Heaven sent.

Changkyun swallows the chrysalis growth and opens his mouth. “Are you here?”

Hyungwon is bewildered, red apples of his eyes, red shine on his nose, and then – thumbs on Changkyun’s cheeks. Holding him still. Everything tunes down, the beats muted, and the bathroom behind Hyungwon begins blurring.

“Changkyun, I’m here,” he says, voice loud, as loud as he can make it without outright shouting. 

Why, why, why, how, warm hands too warm on his feverish skin, and it’s fever that speaks for him. 

“How did you know I was here?”

He doesn’t need to strain his voice for Hyungwon to hear, Hyungwon always hears, but Changkyun doesn’t want to be heard now, he wants to throw up.

“We met here,” he says. Fact. Life outside of the bathroom stall. “You’re always here.”

Why is he always here?

Acid burns, burns, burns, and his eyes water, but it doesn’t feel like water, it feels like fire, salt on an open wound, and something jumps inside him, a quiet hitch, groan, whimper, suppressed gag at the back of his throat. 

Changkyun sniffs, and acid runs hot tears down his face. His legs are shaking, he doesn’t feel the floor. 

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he knows. “It hurts,” he tries to raise his hand to point at his stomach, but Hyungwon notices it regardless, and his too big red eyes widen. 

“Your hand is bleeding.”

Red on the walls, smudges, dry, etched forever, and Hyungwon takes the useless bleeding hand and leads it to his shoulder, but Changkyun is too high to wipe it on the fabric of his jacket.

“What did you take?”

Poison, good quality poison, shitty poison, good things, bad things.

“I’m on painkillers,” another gag in his throat, frogs in his mouth, he is going to spill. “Alcohol.”

Where did the obedience come from? All he is spilling is words, words, words. None of Hyungwon’s business, but there is literal saline in his skull, and it’s going to burst out of him. 

“Weed. Coke.”

“Fuck, Changkyun,” Hyungwon breathes out, and Changkyun’s bones melt, heated steel, a hand wraps around his waist, the other clutches his arm on Hyungwon’s shoulder, and they both descend to the dirty floor, Changkyun’s knees brittle, and he is looking at the mess in the toilet bowl, and Hyungwon is looking at him.

“I’m gonna throw up.”

Harsh fingers grip his jaw, pressure just on the top of his throat, and he is overcome with sobs, body seized with convulsions as he opens his mouth, and it’s not bugs coming out.

Bile, but feels like all the four humors. 

Relief never comes, it’s only his stomach, he can never puke his brain and heart out, and, god damn, it’s such a pity. When physical pain washes off, all the other pain solidifies in his chest, but the physical pain isn’t over yet, he rubs his bleeding hand on Hyungwon’s jacket, his knees bruise again and again on the hard tiles, his jeans soak, his hair soaks too. He has enough mind to brush his long bangs back, and then it feels easier, and then it feels excruciating again.

The high never wears off. Hyungwon feels abstract still, he could be here, or he could not be here, and Changkyun isn’t sure his phone is in his back pocket, hopefully it’s in his jacket, hopefully it’s not resting in a pool of piss. 

But it doesn’t fucking matter, he doesn’t need Hyungwon, he doesn’t need anyone, he just needed to wait a little, and he would wake up on his own.

His fingers grip the collar of Hyungwon’s jacket on the back. 

He doesn’t need him. 

His eyes stray from the bowl to the flattened lips. 

He doesn’t need anyone. 

His mouth moves on his own, take me home.

He doesn’t need him. But now that he is here, might as well relieve the pain. You’ll fuck me, won’t you? You’ll make me miserable, won’t you? You’ll kick the washing machine and break a vase for that fake flower on your counter, won’t you? 

“Come on, Changkyun, get up.”

Hyungwon doesn’t call him baby like he used to. Maybe it wasn’t Hyungwon. But every _baby_ sounds so warm and thick and stupid in Hyungwon’s voice. Fucking denial. He will hate it on a clear head. 

The bout of anxiety never eases in his throat, but his head will be clear, eventually.

“It’s okay, just hold on to me,” Hyungwon shouts, red, blue, purple, dark shadows that have too much form, push on his shoulders, another, another, he is high again, goo vaporising to fog in his head, spiraling, and he is going to fall.

Why does it never get easier? Why do the painkillers never kill the pain but only kill the human that takes them?

He sniffs, and it’s cold, and it’s air hitting the fever on his skin, and Hyungwon presses him against the wall. Changkyun is nearing a blackout, another one. It was just one line. It was just one blunt. It was just three glasses. It was just five pills. 

Why does the high never come?

Why does Hyungwon let go?

Thumbs under his eyes. He can stand, he can stand on two legs. He will get himself out of this, he always does, he has control, the loss of bodily functions is not the problem, Changkyun’s main problem is himself. And Hyungwon is just a side effect.

Tagged along the way.

You can rely on me, depend on me, I’m sturdier than booze, he would always say. And then he’d crumble when Changkyun doesn’t keep the promise he never made. 

“Why do you always leave,” he mutters. His throat hurts, his lips barely move. Dry, rough, aching.

It’s just one of those days, some days when Hyungwon isn’t there to get him his prescription. He just tags along, happy, and then he leaves when Changkyun is not. 

Or maybe it’s Changkyun who pushes him away. He doesn’t know. His stomach is so fucking empty. 

“Changkyun,” Hyungwon says in the same quiet tone. He is glowing silver in the nighttime. Black hair and black eyes. Changkyun’s head is shaking, but for now Hyungwon is one. “I’m here.”

“Fuck you,” he whispers. Hyungwon doesn’t show anything, looks at him for another second, and then makes a move to turn around. Changkyun’s fingers grip the hem of his jacket. “Don’t leave.”

There are people passing by. Bouncers still at the doors. The air is cool, he is able to put full stops, and Hyungwon also stops. Warm hand on his neck.

“I’m just going to call us a taxi,” he mumbles. Convincing, even though his eyes are always like that. Abandoned puppy eyes. Changkyun’s been stealing his prescription out of spite because he doesn’t have his own. 

Changkyun lets go, and Hyungwon flattens his lips and walks to the side of the road, gets out his phone, looks for a taxi. Doesn’t leave. He will. Sometimes Hyungwon is there when Changkyun looks at himself in the mirror. Sometimes he isn’t. It’s shit either way. 

“I miss you.”

He doesn’t leave for some deep, hurtful reason. He is working. He is busy. Changkyun’s just fucked up. It’s just Changkyun. He is still young, it’s not his fault that the devils never stop laughing in his head.

That countryside, months ago. Levitating so high that it hurt like hell to come back down. Just one of those days. Saline in his throat again, snot in his nose, acid in his eyes, why can’t those fluffy clouds watch over them forever? 

“Baby,” Hyungwon puts Changkyun’s arm on his shoulders and wraps his own around his waist. “We’ll get you home.” 

But it’s Hyungwon’s countryside, and those fluffy clouds are only there when he is. When Hyungwon lets _him_ tag along. God damn it. Fucking dependence. It helps so much when he is near.

“I’m still here, okay?” Hyungwon exhales, voice small. 

God fucking damn it. 

That’s good.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading!! for every relatable feeling u offer me, i make a promise to never write self indulgent shit again 
> 
> im on twt @chaeleggiewon <3


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